31. It Wasn’t Just a Sandwich #2
“It would be okay if you were.” He knew he was speaking slowly, but he wanted to weigh each word. “It would be normal to be scared right then. It would be okay.”
It took both his hands and a not small amount of effort to shift Connor’s torso, but as soon as he realized Jonathan wanted him to rotate on the bench and spread his chest across Jonathan’s legs, he burrowed closer.
His face and shoulders filled Jonathan’s lap, and he wrapped one arm behind Jonathan’s waist and threw the other across to the far side, knocking into Kitten’s carrier.
The tiny squawk loosened the clog in Jonathan’s throat, and maybe helped Connor, too, because he whispered into Jonathan’s thigh. “I wasn’t scared of him.”
Emma and Hank appeared down the sidewalk, bringing Ribby and Connor’s baseball backpack.
He raised one hand, palm out, to stop them from walking closer.
“I knew I’d lose you. I knew.”
His other hand tunneled into Connor’s mashed curls. “I’m still here.”
Now Connor was really fucking crying, but he wasn’t making any noise, just silent shudders and a lot of tears. Like making Jonathan’s pants stick to his legs amount of tears.
Nothing he could give Connor would deliver comfort equivalent to petting Ribby’s velvet ears, so he pointed at Ribby until Emma nodded, then he beckoned and pressed a finger to his lips to silence her, all without stopping the motion of his other hand on Connor’s head.
Connor noticed nothing.
“I said come in and I made him a sandwich because he was drunk and the whole time I knew it was a mistake and I’d lose you.”
“You didn’t lose me.” He’d almost ruined them with his own insecurities, and he needed to do better, but all he could think to do was sift Connor’s curls and squeeze the corded tendons of his neck. “We’re at the park. Together. It’ll be okay.”
Every time he offered empty phrases, he felt like he was the one lying, but then Emma slipped him Ribby’s leash and backed away silently.
Maybe his words would help Connor, but he knew it was mostly the dog that would.
He peeled Connor’s hand off his leg and moved it down to Ribby’s head. “Ribby’s here, too.”
Connor’s fingers curled and released, curled and released, the scritches of a man with his dog. Even watching the motion loosened something in Jonathan.
“I was so stupid. I made him another sandwich. I let him eat a sandwich. Why did I do that? Why?”
Connor was on a loop about that sandwich, and Jonathan didn’t know if that was cathartic or deepening the problem, but he let it play. “You did the best you could. That’s all we can do.”
The weight of Connor’s upper body shifted on Jonathan’s legs, and a sharp hiccup pushed his shoulder into Jonathan’s thigh.
Maybe the noise was more like a gasp with air going both ways at the same time.
Whatever it was, it sounded like it hurt, and he wanted to take it into his own body for Connor.
“He just sat there. Then when he left, he got mad and did it again but that time I pushed him into the wall. And he broke the table and my Crater Lake poster.”
All the air went out of Jonathan’s lungs.
Connor had said that like an afterthought, like being assaulted a second time so violently that they broke furniture was less important than dropping a sandwich.
He was way out of his depth.
Safe, seen and stable.
“You’re with me and Ribby. You’re safe here, Connor. I promise.”
He’d figure out more later. He’d research support for assault victims, a hotline, a group, anything, everything, he’d learn it all, but right now safe, seen and stable was the only mantra he knew.
Connor squeezed him with the arm wrapped around Jonathan’s waist.
“You’re not alone. You’re safe with us.” Saying the same few things, over and over, felt inadequate.
He needed magic words or a wand that would heal this sweet man and replace his pain with kisses and comfort, but he didn’t have sorcery, he had fuck-all, nothing better than murmurs and pats on the back.
Ribby pushed against his legs, a good weight that grounded him, too.
He was going to torture himself with images of this Tony asshole hurting Connor if he didn’t know the whole story, and maybe the seen part of the phrase included revealing the bad, scary stuff and being cared for, so he’d ask. He had to.
“Will you tell me what he got mad about? The second time.”
Connor moved against Jonathan’s waist and legs, possibly shaking his head, but maybe burrowing deeper. Jonathan kept rubbing his back.
“I think you’ll feel better without any secrets.” That was generally the way confessions went in books.
“You’ll feel bad.”
“Me? Why, what was it?” He already knew he sucked, but of course there were undoubtedly myriad more facets to that truth.
“He saw your shoes.”
A sound like a seal bark burst out from his chest. “Which pair?
“The ones with the bears.”
Connor sounded almost normal, and this was a conversation Jonathan could handle.